


Biscuit

by Lupin_73276



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Body Swap, Episode: s02e11 Mea Maxima Culpa, Episode: s02e12 You Are Not Your Own, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 20:36:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lupin_73276/pseuds/Lupin_73276
Summary: Magnus stood, slumped against the cold pane of glass keeping him caged, watching as Alec's figure gradually got smaller then disappeared as the younger man was concealed by the gleaming elevator doors. Never once did the man he loves look back at him.----Magnus is trapped in Valentine's body, will anyone believe him before he is due to be executed? (Set in 2x12) Theory based.





	Biscuit

**Author's Note:**

> A.N: This is a little by-product of one of my theories for 2x12 (that Clary might be the person to figure out the body swap situation). I couldn't get it out of my head, so I had to write it; this was written before the episode aired, I just forgot to post here. I hope you like it.

Magnus stood, slumped against the cold pane of glass keeping him caged, watching as Alec’s figure gradually got smaller then disappeared as the younger man was concealed by the gleaming elevator doors. Never once did the man he loves look back at him. He choked back a sob that threatened to bubble from his throat, he felt vulnerable enough without crying as well. Turning away from the vague reflection in the glass he dragged this unfamiliar body to the uncomfortable chair that stood as the centrepiece of his cage.

He folded himself as tightly as he could into the piece of furniture, wincing as he felt the lingering ache in the muscles from Valentine’s torture that had taken pace mere hours before; briefly shuddering at the thought of being subjected to the full force of the rune that marked the left wrist.

He felt little more than despair and grief; his hope had faded with Alec’s departure, flickering out as the elevator doors softly closed. He tightly grips the navy blue fabric of the jumpsuit that this body is wearing; hating the feel of the cheap material but he clenched his fingers tighter, the knuckles turning white as he tries to ground himself. He feels utterly powerless.

He looks around the sparse, dull room he inhabited; but it did not frighten him as much as this body did. He was a prisoner inside a body that was not his own. He stared down at the age weathered hands of the body that belonged to a man that despised him, has tried to kill him. A man that had slaughtered his friends and hunted his kin; a man that sought the destruction of his kind. He felt consumed with disgust and helplessness at being trapped in the body of a murderer, someone who was despised by everyone he knew.

He felt a wave of pain as he remembered with stark clarity the look of contempt and anger in Alec’s eyes. He understands that Alec sees Valentine but he could not forget the disgust that was, albeit unintentionally, aimed at him.

He spared a brief thought for what Valentine may be doing with his body but quickly discarded it. It wouldn’t matter anyway. He clenched his eyes shut; he was to be executed in a body that was not his own. He would never see Raphael or Catarina again; he wouldn’t feel his magic one more time; or see Clary and Isabelle smile at him. He wouldn’t get to touch Alexander one more time, to kiss him or tell him he loves him.

His internal despair deafened him to Inquisitor Herondale and her two accompanying Shadowhunters as they entered the cell.

“It’s time.” The woman’s stern voice awoke him from his dark, grief soaked thoughts. He did not speak or struggle as they roughly lifted and restrained him.

As he was manhandled towards the door his attention was abruptly grabbed by a shock of red hair, Clary.

A small spark of hope ignited in his heart, for the first time since they restrained him he began to struggle; fighting to delay his departure and get closer to his favourite fiery red head.

“Clary, please, listen to me...” He began to plead, the words hoarse from this unfamiliar throat.

“Save it.” She replied sharply, no patience for any cruel games her father might play. She glared at him with hatred, a hate Magnus knew was for the man who had killed her mother.

He could feel the body he occupied being dragged through the threshold; his chance of salvation quickly slipping through his fingers like sand.

He locked eyes with the woman he had known since she was a child, tears that could no longer be held back pooled in his eyes.

Desperately he calls “Biscuit, please...” He keeps his eyes on her as he is reluctantly pulled from the room and towards his demise.

Clary stood alone in the cell that had contained her father, eyes fixed on the doorway disbelievingly as dread curled like a snake in her chest; sitting heavily over her heart making it hard to breathe. Her eyes widened in final realisation and one word, barely whispered, escaped her mouth.

“Magnus.”


End file.
